


Pierced by Cupid

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Harassment, Kissing, Love Confessions, Misunderstandings, Self-Defense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 03:18:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6267439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin is hurt when he misunderstands a song as a confession of love to Bard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pierced by Cupid

Weary, shaken, and trailing just behind your companions, you hoisted yourself gracelessly from the waterlogged barrel and flopped into the shallow but breathtakingly cold water of the river. No sooner had you made a few faltering attempts to crawl for the shore than a strong hand grasped the back of your tunic and hauled you to your feet, and Thorin faced you with a frantic look. 

“Are you hurt?” He clasped you by the shoulders, surveying you for any sign of injury, and you instinctively followed the path of his eyes over your body, finding – to your surprise – that you had avoided serious injury in the chaotic, terrifying escape from Mirkwood.

“No…no, I’m fine,” you answered, and abruptly, shockingly, you were enveloped by the cold clamminess of his wet clothes as he gathered you into a tight embrace. 

“Thank Mahal,” he murmured, to himself more than to you, and your hands moved to gently pat his back for lack of a more eloquent response to this unexpected show of concern. He pulled back, retaining his hold on your shoulders, looking at you with worry still furrowing his brow until a clearing of the throat from Dwalin seemed to bring him to a sudden, uncomfortable awareness of his position.

“On your feet!” Thorin stepped away from you, barking to the rest of the exhausted company where they’d gathered to regroup, his eyes scanning the surrounding forest for any sign of your pursuers. 

“Kili’s wounded, his leg needs binding,” Fili argued, but Thorin was adamant.

“We’ve an orc pack on our tail. We keep moving.”

During the debate that ensued about the company’s next move, you sank gratefully onto a large rock to catch your breath, giving silent thanks to whatever gods might be listening when Thorin at last agreed to a few minutes’ rest before pressing on. You had just wrung out your hair as well as you could and had turned your efforts to your soggy socks when a movement in the corner of your eye caught your attention, and you looked up to see the man with dark hair and a darker expression aiming an arrow directly at Ori.

* * *

The barge glided through the frigid waters of the Long Lake and you leaned over its side, staring unseeing into the dark depths, your thoughts likewise murky. After Thorin’s sudden and surprising outpouring of feeling on the riverbank, he had stood beside you during Balin’s tense negotiations with the man you now knew as Bard, his shoulder overlapping yours as though he would shield you, his protective hand on the small of your back guiding you as you boarded the boat, and you struggled to understand what it all meant.

Your own feelings where Thorin was concerned were as clear as day. During the long days and weeks of the quest, you’d perfected the art of hiding your longing beneath a mask of efficient friendliness, of biting back the fond words that often foolishly rose to your lips, gripping your bow a little more tightly when your arms longed to comfort him in his discouragement, wondering all the while what the company’s leader thought of you…if he thought of you at all.

The boat veered slightly, and you looked to where Bard expertly manned the tiller, guiding the craft through the fog. He was handsome, despite his grim expression, and your heart had gone out to him when you’d seen pride and pain by turns in his countenance, speaking of his children and his late wife. His eyes met yours, accompanied by a brief, encouraging quirk of his mouth, before returning to their diligent scanning of the waters ahead.

While you gazed down again at the ripples that lapped against the rough-hewn wood of the barge, a memory sprang unbidden into your mind. Another boat, in another time…the notes of the song floated by like wisps of vapor in the air, and you found yourself quietly singing snatches of its words.

_A fig for his riches, his merchandise, and gold,_ _  
__True love is grafted in my heart; give me my sailor bold:_ _  
__Should he return in poverty, from o'er the ocean far,_ _  
__To my tender bosom, I’ll fondly press my jolly tar._

You could nearly smell the sunwarmed grasses and hear your father’s jolly voice, and more of the tune returned to your memory.

_Come all you pretty fair maids, whoever you may be_ _  
__Who love a jolly sailor bold that ploughs the raging sea,_ _  
__While up aloft, in storm or gale, from me his absence mourn,_ _  
__And firmly pray, arrive the day, he home will safe return._

The very taste of the bread and cheese and apples you’d always packed for a picnic lunch came back to you, the excitement of leaning over the side of the little boat to drag your fingers through the water of the pond and watch the tiny waves they made sparkling in the sun.

_My name it is Maria, a merchant’s daughter fair,_ _  
__And I have left my parents and three thousand pounds a year,_ _  
__My heart is pierced by Cupid, I disdain all glittering gold,_ _  
__There is nothing can console me but my jolly sailor bold._

You were brought sharply back to the present by the sound of another voice, rich and melodic, joining you for the last words of this final verse, and you turned to see Bard smiling more widely than you’d yet seen him. A blush warmed your face at having been heard in your absentminded warbling, but after months in the company of the dwarves, listening to their unfamiliar songs and stories, you grinned delightedly at the sense of camaraderie that filled you upon finding this common thread with the bargeman.

Standing up with a stretch of your arms, you turned around to survey your companions in the bow of the boat and found Thorin watching you, observing your flushed cheeks and twinkling eyes with an unfathomable expression, and in the instant before he looked away, you were almost sure you saw hurt in his eyes. Pricked by concern as much as curiosity, you made to go to him, but at that moment a hush fell over the company and the attention of everyone on the barge was riveted by the first sight of the sharp, forbidding peak of Erebor, ghostlike in the mist.

* * *

To say that the house of the Master of Laketown was comfortable would be an understatement. Indeed, you would never have known that such wealth existed in the town to look at its residents, and the knowledge that Bard could have fed his family for weeks with what the Master spent on brandy turned the spirit bitter in your mouth.

The change in the company’s fortunes had been abrupt and unsettling, and yet all of the dwarves had cheerfully embraced their elevation from prisoners to honored guests and were thoroughly enjoying the benefits of the Master’s welcome…all of the dwarves except one. Thorin had excused himself as soon after dinner as politeness would allow and had not returned, and when Bofur began another chorus of his favorite drinking song, you slipped away and out of the main entrance of the house to stand on the veranda, looking over the snow-sprinkled town for any sign of him.

You were not alone for long, however, and you were hard-pressed to hide your dismay when the Master’s simpering, bullying lackey, a man called Alfrid, slunk onto the porch to stand by your side, wearing a leer which he clearly thought flirtatious. He leaned so close to you that his breath wafted over your cheek when he spoke, stinking of drink and salted fish.

“Is it true you’ve been traveling for months wiv ‘ese dwarves?”

“Indeed,” you answered shortly, and he sidled closer, grinning.

“Well, then, I imagine you must be near starved for the company of a _real_ man.” Alfrid lowered his voice to an impudent murmur and waggled an eyebrow suggestively.

He received only a withering look for his trouble. “Perhaps if I see one, I shall consider it.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, darling,” he returned, his fingers curling around your arm, and before he knew what had happened, his back was against the house’s wooden siding and the blade of the bone-handled dagger you’d been gifted from the arsenal of the dwarves’ new weapons was pressed to his throat.

“If you’re fond of that hand, I suggest you keep it to yourself,” you warned, and when he waved his arms in a frightened gesture of surrender, you stepped away to allow him his freedom, though you kept the blade trained on him.

“All right, all right! No need for _violence_ , I was only ‘aving a bit of a joke…the dwarves can ‘ave you, for all I care,” he spat, glaring at you as he smoothed his collar and adjusted the angle of his greasy cap before disappearing into the house with a quick step, leaving you to heave a weary sigh and sheathe your dagger again.

“Good evening,” came a warm, lilting voice from the bottom of the steps, and you moved forward out of the shadow of the veranda.

“Bard,” you smiled, relaxing, “good evening to _you_.”

He nodded toward the closed door. “I was going to offer assistance, but it seemed you had things well in hand.”

A short huff of humorless laughter escaped you. “He wasn’t the first…won’t be the last,” you shrugged.

“Are you all right?” His tone was more serious.

“I’m fine,” you nodded, “thank you.”

“What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”

“Have you seen Thorin?”

“Aye, he was out walking. Didn’t say much.”

“I think I’ll go and look for him.” You reached the bottom of the steps, and Bard shifted the sack in his arms, laden with a loaf of bread and several paper-wrapped parcels, to lay a gentle hand on your shoulder, his eyes worried.

“There is danger in that mountain.”

You looked away, toward its peak, before meeting his eyes again. “I know.”

“You don’t have to do this,” he pleaded. “You should leave…go back to Mirkwood. I could take you as far as the river’s mouth,” he offered, but you shook your head.

“What is there for me in Mirkwood? I’ve had my fill of King Thranduil’s hospitality.”

“Safety,” Bard said firmly. “Safety from the destruction Thorin’s greed will unleash upon us all.”

Your breath was a sharp, trembling inhale, and you mustered a bracing smile. “I appreciate your help, truly I do,” you answered. “You saved all of our lives. But my place is with the company.”

He sighed darkly, though he nodded. After a pause, he asked, “and with Thorin?”

There was sympathy in his eyes when you met his gaze, and the fleeting shadow of an understanding smile on his lips.

“Yes,” you admitted.

“Then I wish you well,” he said sincerely, though he added, “be careful.”

“I will,” you promised, and smiled at him before moving to walk away, but you were stopped by the sound of your name, and by the resignation in Bard’s voice.

“He was walking toward the North dock, past the fishmonger’s.”

On an impulse, you turned, and stood on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek gratefully. “Thank you, Bard. Say goodnight to the children for me.”

* * *

Thorin stood with his back to you on the isolated pier that jutted out over the glassy water, his eyes trained on the dark spire of the Lonely Mountain, so lost in thought that he did not turn when you approached.

“Does it make you happy to be so close to it?”

He started at the sound of your voice, turning to see you before glancing back to the mountain. “So close, yet the work of reclaiming it still lies ahead,” he said pensively, and was silent for a moment before looking sharply at you. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same,” you answered. “You left as soon as we’d eaten.”

“Aye,” he admitted, “I needed some air…time to think. Are the others still there?”

“Oh, yes,” you chuckled wryly. “I believe the Master will find his ale stores quite diminished in the morning.”

The corner of Thorin’s mouth quirked upward, and he gave you a sidelong glance. “And…Bard?”

“No, of course not,” you shook your head in confusion. “I don’t expect he’ll be welcome in the Master’s house anytime soon. I met him as I was leaving, on his way home to his children.”

Thorin nodded, and ventured, “and did you not wish to go with him?”

Your expression was as blank as your mind. “Why should I wish to do that?”

His gaze wandered to the far shore of the lake. “The reason is clear to everyone else.”

“It’s not like you to talk in riddles, Thorin,” you frowned. “If you have something to say to me, say it.”

A flash of exasperation showed in his eyes as he turned back to you. “I heard you singing to him, on the boat.”

“Singing…to _Bard?_ ”

“Aye, the song about loving a sailor. It was plain to see that you meant it for him. And if he has not responded in kind,” he muttered, looking away again, “he’s a bigger fool than I thought.”

The pieces of the puzzle fell into place in your mind, and you could have laughed if he hadn’t looked so wounded. “Oh, Thorin,” you sighed, smiling, and he looked curiously at you, obviously caught off guard by your reaction to his words. “That song about loving a sailor is a silly tune I learned when I was a little girl. My father used to sing it when we went out on the mill pond in our little rowboat, to make me laugh.” A repressed chuckle escaped your lips at last. “What you heard was a fond childhood memory…nothing more.”

Thorin looked sheepish, his cheeks going a shade darker in the moonlight with an embarrassed flush, and he blinked rapidly. “So,” he began hoarsely, stopping to clear his throat, “you do not…have feelings for Bard?”

The relief that washed over his face upon saying the words gave you boldness, though your stomach fluttered. “There is only one man in Laketown whose company I have sought out tonight, and here I am. What does that tell you about where my feelings lie?”

His eyes bored into the depths of yours, and he reached with a tentative, feather-light touch to cup your chin with his hand, murmuring, “can it be?”

Your voice failed you, dropping to a shy whisper as you answered, “it’s only ever been you, Thorin. Since the day we met.”

The hand on your chin slid to cradle the back of your head, his other arm crept around your waist, pulling you close with a decisiveness that made you tingle, and Thorin’s lips were on yours, tasting them, parting them, making you weak with the raw need that burned in him and found its match in your own heart. You buried your hands in his thick hair, clutching soft handfuls as you pressed closer, molding the plush curves of your body to the broad hardness of his. Gradually, though you continued to chase his lips, the crushing kisses slowed to more gentle, nibbling pecks, nuzzles of his nose on your cheeks, and you were looking into his eyes, shining liquid in the moonlight.

“The perils of this quest are not yet behind us,” he said, and though his voice was roughened with desire, it was apologetic. “I cannot say what will happen tomorrow.” 

“I’m not asking you to promise me tomorrows,” you shook your head, stroking his soft beard as he held you tightly. “They are never ours to give. But I would be yours now, here, tonight.”

He was breathing heavily, white vapor in the frosty night air. “Tonight, and for every moment that is granted us,” he promised, and you nodded, resting your forehead against his, grasping the thick fabric of his cloak in your cold hands. “Come, _amrâlimê_ ,” he purred, and hand in hand, you walked away from the shadow of the ever-watchful mountain to the warmth and light of the town.

“Ahm-rah-lee-may,” you repeated slowly, clumsily. “I’ve heard Gloin say that word…what does it mean?”

Thorin smiled, one of his rare, delighted, radiant smiles that summoned the ghost of the carefree young man he must once have been, and raised your hand to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to your knuckles.

“Let me show you.”


End file.
